


wicked eyes; wicked hearts

by MissDinahDarling



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Enthusiastic Consent, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecurity, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Jaskier | Dandelion, Purple Prose, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, True Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling
Summary: Geralt of Rivia is an Alpha in every sense of the word. He's just... never had a rut before. Until now. Luckily for him, Jaskier isveryexperienced in giving Alphas ahelping hand.tldr: Alpha Geralt and omega Jaskier have sex. But like, withfeelings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 124
Kudos: 2745
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	wicked eyes; wicked hearts

Geralt of Rivia is an Alpha in every sense of the word.

Bar his scent.

Bar the ruts.

And the self-entitled attitude, replete with prejudice, pride and—

Well, that’s a little unfair. Geralt _has_ come across Alphas who _have been_ fair and generous. Most died within moments of him meeting them, but still.

They _had_ existed.

They all had the _scent_ though; Geralt hasn’t got a scent, or at least… he hasn’t had a scent since he’s acquired his eyes. It’s part of the process, he had been told, back when he had suffered the mutations, the training, the trials – he’s not entirely sure he had been told the truth, however. And yet. And yet… the last time he had experienced a rut, had also been the first moment his eyes flashed _gold_.

Since then, his Alpha side has been dormant.

Sleeping.

Waiting.

Smothered under his instincts, both witcher and mutant.

And then.

Then he met _Yennefer_.

Who had scented like an Alpha, but… but tasted like an _omega_. Who had forced her body to change, in more ways than mere appearance. Alphas have _power_ , Alphas have _strength_ and Yennefer longs to obtain both. Geralt honestly had not judged her for her choices in life, but. But since sleeping with her after the djinn, since spending the night assisting her with her rut which had been brought on by the sudden spike of _power_ …

Fuck.

His blood rumbles.

His skin crawls.

His head… _hurts_.

He’s not sure if it had been her magic, her scent, but something has changed _deep_ with him. He’s become more _sensitive_ to everything around him. The world seems louder, colours burn his eyes and the _smells_ , oh, how the smells wreak havoc in his body.

It doesn’t really hit him until he’s sat in a bar, watching Jaskier conjure up his own particular brand of magic.

The odd little omega dances around the patrons, wielding his lute like a shield, brandishing his words like a weapon. He’s very good at what he does – he’s alluring and mystifying, entrancing all those who listen to him like a siren. Despite becoming aggrieved by that blasted Witcher song, Geralt has to admit that Jaskier’s voice… has a certain _something_ to it. Not that he’d ever admit it, Jaskier certainly doesn’t _need_ the ego boost, but.

But.

But there’s something else going on.

Geralt eyes the wine in his hand, the food on his plate and wonders if he’s been poisoned. His blood bubbles in his veins, his nose twitching irritably as he assesses the strange sensations in his body. He’s never felt so _hot_ and _irritable_ before – it doesn’t feel like he’s been poisoned, but something is not right. Geralt narrows his eyes, brings the wine to his lips and takes a slow mouthful. Not poisoned – awfully watered down, however.

He sighs, places the cup down and casts his eyes across the bar, searching for his wayward bard.

Geralt straightens up when he finds the man, perching on a table, strumming at his lute with such delicate movements – he finds himself mesmerised by the sight of those talented fingers, plucking at the strings with sharp, deliberate little flicks. The patrons surrounding Jaskier watch him carefully, greedily drinking him in as he lulls them into a trance. It… unnerves something deep in Geralt, seeing Jaskier being openly ogled like this.

Which is.

Strange, in itself.

As Geralt has seen Jaskier is far more _compromising_ positions, so why now does it rankle him?

He furrows his brows, watches as a table of Alphas jeer and heckle the bard, leering and loutish; Geralt would have said something, but Jaskier… hadn’t responded so favourably the last time he had defended his honour in such a setting.

Jaskier is of the opinion that being an omega does _not_ correlate to being defenceless, weak, _pathetic_ – at the time, however, his words had been at odds with his scent, but Geralt supposes the bard can’t be held accountable for what is mere biological instinct. An omega might have been thrilled by an Alpha defending them, but Jaskier?

Jaskier’s no such omega.

Which just befuddles Geralt more than anything – most of the time, Jaskier yearns for Geralt’s protection, whether it be from bloodthirsty beasts or angry husbands, but. But being protected from the lustful attentions of other Alphas?

Is apparently _not_ what Jaskier wants from him.

So.

So Geralt stays in his seat, but he continues to watch.

To observe.

To protect without really… _protecting_.

Jaskier sings and trills, his charming voice flowing throughout the shitty establishment with smooth ease. Patrons clap, some sing along, others murmur and point at Geralt with knowing eyes… it’s almost too overwhelming though and Geralt feels himself.

Growing.

So.

Uncomfortable.

His skin feels too tight and his stomach roars with this _fire_ – it flickers outwards, towards his groin and his chest, getting hotter and bigger. Then there’s the _smell_ … thick and murky, radiating around him like a storm cloud. The smell is sharp, musky and it’s so distinctly _Alpha_. The patrons sat closest to him squirm in their seats, looking around for the source of the _smell_ , and. And it’s _him_.

And.

And he tingles and itches.

And as Geralt shifts in his seat, he finds himself growing.

 _Hard_.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, tightening his hold on his wine.

He glances up, his eyes finding Jaskier – the omega hasn’t noticed his turmoil yet, too busy flirting and charming the table of rowdy Alphas, eager to collect their coin in return for tolerating their abhorrent attentions. Absently, Geralt thinks about leaving Jaskier to his own devices, to retreat to their room and retire for the evening. He’s clearly… not well, but he’s not sure why and he doesn’t want an audience near him when he finds out.

He wets his dry lips, pushes his plates away and considers informing the bard of his plans, when—

“C’mere pretty thing!”

—when his plans rapidly _change_.

Geralt isn’t really sure what happens next, because in one moment, he’s watching as the bard flits around the table, and the next—

“Don’t get so _familiar_!”

—the next, an Alpha grabs Jaskier by the hip, his fingers harsh and searching, pulling the bard towards him, manipulating and ruthless and.

And.

And Jaskier’s scent flitters between anger, annoyance, _fear_ and suddenly, Geralt is lunging across the bar. He’s not sure what’s _happening_ to him, but the world has grown fuzzy around the edges, black and shadowed and then. Then Geralt _can’t_ see anything, but he _can_ smell Jaskier and he _can_ smell that Alpha who is _getting far too familiar, far too touchy, far too_ —

“Geralt!”

“Get him out of here!”

“Oh, fuck!”

“How dare you bring an Alpha – a _Witcher_ Alpha to my bar! And in a rut!”

“How uncivilised…”

“Hey, wait, no—”

—then the world comes rushing back.

And he has the Alpha by the throat, pressed up tight against bar.

He blinks, because he’s _never_ touched a human like this.

Has made _every_ effort to never harm a human.

No matter how much abuse is thrown his way.

No matter how many stones they throw, or how much they spit and curse and—

“Geralt!” Jaskier is suddenly by his side, smelling of oranges and honeydew and sweet wine, “Geralt, let him go!”

Omegas don’t quite have the same _commanding_ tone in their voices, but _Jaskier_. Jaskier _demands_ and Geralt can do little else but _obey_. He releases the human Alpha and pushes himself away, stumbles blindly until he hits a table and feels himself, feels himself _burn_ and _tremble_ and he’s _never felt like this before_.

“Get him out of here!”

“Oh, go bugger yourself, you wretched crone! And don’t you dare touch that lute!”

Geralt blearily peers over at Jaskier – the feisty bard is glaring at the barkeep, hissing and spitting like an angry cat. He grips onto Geralt’s shoulder and _yanks_ , pulling him and tugging him towards the steps. No one comes near them, no one says anything else – the human Alpha Geralt had just assaulted, simply collapses to the floor and clutches at his throat with wide, frightened eyes.

No one moves.

No one but Jaskier, who leads Geralt to their room.

He allows himself to be dragged, because his body is still tight with tension, thrumming with unchecked rage and. And he doesn’t know what to do with all this energy… well, he does, he’s just not sure Jaskier would.

Would even want to.

Because _why would he_?

Jaskier, who is pretty and alluring, who can charm his way into any chamber and bed – Jaskier, who can have anyone, so why even waste his precious, short life dallying with. With a jaded, cagey witcher, who has—

_“It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”_

Who almost—

_“I just want some damn peace!”_

Who did—

“Okay, you growly bear!” Jaskier declares, throwing Geralt into their room with little fanfare – he waltzes in behind him and slams the door shut, placing his hands on his hips as he stares at the Alpha with a single, arched eyebrow, “would you care to tell me what—” he waves his hand around airily, “—what all _that_ was about? And your scent! And to think, you consider _me_ to be the scandalous one!”

Geralt blinks.

Cants his head.

Takes in the scent of irate omega, pissed and irritated; it’s bitter and sharp, like a lemon, but _there_. Underneath all that annoyance is the sweet tang of appreciation, of gratitude, of… of pleasure. Jaskier had _liked_ what Geralt had done for him, even if he hadn’t _wanted_ to, which,

Which,

Which has Geralt almost vibrating with _desire_.

He silently watches as Jaskier’s sweet nose twitches, as the bard cocks his head curiously – realisation slowly shines in his pretty blue eyes. The omega’s arms fall limply to his sides and Geralt knows that he should probably leave. He should get out of the bar, out of the town, out of the fucking country, because.

Because this feisty omega before him is—

Is _perfect_.

Is everything Geralt has ever privately wanted.

And now he’s—

He’s—

“That smell… oh Geralt, you naughty boy! You _are_ in a rut!” Jaskier demands, throwing his hands up, “and you _didn’t tell me_!”

“Didn’t know,” Geralt shrugs, trying hard to resist the siren call of Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier gapes, opens his mouth and closes it, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“You didn’t know?” he echoes, a hint of hysteria threading through his words, “are you a _child_ , how can you not know?”

“Never really had one before,” Geralt admits, without a shred of embarrassment.

Jaskier blinks and suddenly, he looks,

Sad.

Despondent.

Almost like he _pities_ Geralt, which has the Alpha growling and recoiling away.

“Is this… a _witcher_ thing?” Jaskier asks hesitantly, pointing at Geralt’s eyes with a critical glint in his gaze, “did they remove your instincts alongside your sense of humour?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, but settles when the bard holds up his hands placatingly, “but yes. A successful witcher doesn’t get distracted by their instincts, so we have them repressed through years of training.”

“The more I learn about your past, the sadder I become,” Jaskier states, swaying towards Geralt with a wary expression on his face. Geralt tenses up, but he remains where he’s stood – his instincts are howling like a wolf inside him, but. But he can’t hurt Jaskier. He can feel himself salivate, can feel himself burn hotter and grow harder, but he cannot just—

 _Take_ Jaskier.

He’s too important.

“Something must have triggered it,” Geralt offers, choosing to ignore Jaskier’s comment on his past, “I’m assuming it was Yennefer.”

Jaskier freezes in his steps, a shadow made of _pain_ coats his face, before it disappears quickly.

“Of course,” he sighs, shaking his head, “that witchy witch probably _cursed_ you. What, was she in heat? In a rut? I’m guessing it was a rut – I couldn’t really catch her scent, but her whole,” he waves his hands in a curving motion, “thing just screams Alpha.”

“It was a rut,” Geralt confirms, “I’ve never shared one before, so.”

“Never shared a rut?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head, “what about a heat?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head, “it’s too dangerous sleeping with anyone when they’re in a vulnerable position – especially for a witcher like me.”

“What an awful life you’ve led,” Jaskier laments, continuing his swaying dance towards the Alpha; his hips move in a way that has Geralt’s vision blurring again, “sharing a heat is wonderful, oh, how it melts my bones. A rut is fun and all, but a heat? It’s like… eating honeycomb from a golden platter, served by naked handmaidens as you lounge about on a bed of thick furs.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Geralt comments, before he’s abruptly smacked on the shoulder by an unimpressed omega. He’s not sure how it’s happened, but Jaskier is suddenly pressed up tight against him, his sweet smell enveloping them as his bright grin grows _brighter_.

“Tell me, my precarious little friend,” Jaskier hums, cocking his head, “what do you want?”

Geralt furrows his brows, because there’s only _one_ thing he wants, but he’s not sure he’s even allowed to…

If he even gets to…

Can he…?

“I can get you the finest ladies this establishment has to offer, though I’m using the _loosest_ definition of the word _finest_ , ladies too for that matter, or,” Jaskier pauses, probably for dramatic effect, “or I can provide you with the finest omega this _country_ has to offer.”

Geralt arches a brow.

“The finest omega?” he echoes, charmed and amused, “such a prestigious title.”

“I earned it,” Jaskier whispers, his breath hot and sweet against Geralt’s face.

“Show me,” Geralt says, and it’s not quite a _demand_ , but Jaskier whines and throws himself at the Alpha regardless. Jaskier’s lips are sticky-sweet from cheap wine, his tongue too eager and fast for Geralt’s liking, but still, he matches the pace with equal intensity – the omega clearly has _no_ qualms about looking desperate. He writhes and squirms against Geralt, his hands searching and quick across shoulders, arms and face. Jaskier’s kiss is wet, his teeth are sharp, and his breath is hot – it’s sweet, deep and full of—

Of—

Longing.

Yearning.

Wanting.

Geralt can _taste_ the need on Jaskier’s tongue; he grabs the omega’s lithe hips and clutches him in tight, aligning their bodies so perfectly, it has the bard purring with delight. A shiver rips down his spine, settles in the base of his lower back before it floods his body – the pleasure stretches like a web, before it tangles with the desire in his groin, inflaming his rut to heights he hadn’t thought possible.

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier croons, running his fingers through Geralt’s dirty, silver locks, “I’m bathing you at least thrice once we’ve finished. Seems such a waste, when you’re finally smelling of something other than rotting vegetables, but I suppose that’s a lament for another day.”

The Alpha snorts and stares down at the melodramatic omega, his interest thick and clear in his eyes.

“You will join me.”

“Is that a question?”

Geralt arches a brow, which is rewarded with an impish smile and another wriggle of Jaskier’s infernally sinful hips.

He pulls away, feels his blood boil as he takes in the dark eyes, wet lips, flushed cheeks of his bard. Jaskier pants lightly, his arms looped around Geralt’s neck and he’s perched on the tip of his toes, leaning into the Alpha’s chest with an arched back. Geralt feels him shiver under his intense gaze and he gestures to the bed with an idle cant of his head – his rut is barely simmering under his skin, held back by sheer will and something that he probably shouldn’t consider magic, but.

But it’s _something_.

“You will join me,” he echoes, leading the omega towards the bed.

Jaskier arches a brow and digs his heels into the fur rug beneath them – Geralt finds himself being easily halted, and he turns to arch a brow at the bossy bard. The omega sways up to him, places his hands against Geralt’s chest and drums his fingers against the hard muscle.

“I think you’ll find,” he says, musing and dangerous, “ _you’re_ joining _me_.”

Then he pushes.

And Geralt simply falls back.

Sinks into the furs and blankets.

Watches as Jaskier approaches him, sweet, impish, _devious_.

“It seems,” Geralt says deliberately, the words suddenly slurring as the rut bites at the corners of his mind, “I’m at your mercy.”

Jaskier hums and straddles his body.

“It seems,” he echoes naughtily, “you’re at the mercy of your rut.”

“Well I’ve never dealt with this before,” Geralt bites out, gritting his teeth at the flare of desire and lust which crashes over his body. He had once witnessed a ship sink from a storm at sea – he feels like the ship and Jaskier is his sea and all the feelings arising between them are the storm. He’s drowning and sinking and. And he _hates_ feeling so. So lost and unable to control his body.

 _Fuck_.

“Lucky for you, my dear,” Jaskier hems, wriggling from where he’s sat atop Geralt’s hips, “I _have_ dealt with rutting Alphas, so follow my lead.”

Geralt cants his head to the side and gives himself over to Jaskier’s instruction.

He allows the omega to manipulate his arms until they rest above his head – the limbs feel too heavy, too thick for him to even resist Jaskier’s control. Then. Then, he helplessly watches as the omega leans to one side, carefully reaching over the bed to take hold of something. He tries to crane his neck, but he finds himself too… too…

Too overwhelmed with heat to move.

He wants to grab the omega, wants to bend him over and fuck him until he screams himself hoarse, until his throat bleeds and his voice dies out. But. But that’s not Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t want that.

The Alpha does.

And Geralt refuses to allow himself to debase himself to such.

Animalistic.

Urges.

“Jaskier,” he mumbles thickly, before the omega returns to his perch, smiling down at the trapped Alpha with an indulgent smile.

“This should help you calm down,” he says, and then he’s leaning across Geralt and, “goodness, I never thought I’d say this, but I adore your _scent_. I want to bottle it and keep it with me for those dark, dreary days when we’re apart.”

And he’s snapping cuffs around Geralt’s wrists, looping the chain through the headframe of the bed. The cuffs are thick, made from silver… Geralt absently, distantly, recognises them as the ones he’s used before, to trap a werewolf for some rich lord. They’re old though and if he tries hard enough, he could probably snap them. He’s about to test his own strength, when he hears the distinct rustle of fabric being unlaced. Geralt peers up, mesmerised as he watches Jaskier shrug out of his doublet, then his chemise, until he rests half-naked atop the Alpha.

It’s not fair, Geralt thinks, having all that creamy skin exposed to him and being unable to indulge himself in touching it, marking it, _claiming_ it for his own.

He strains against the cuffs again and.

“Behave, dear Alpha.”

And is suddenly hit by the realisation that he doesn’t really want to break them.

“Be good for me and calm down.”

He wants to be good.

He wants to calm down.

He doesn’t want to be a mindless Alpha, hungry for sex. 

No matter how lovely the omega looks right now.

“Yes, settle Alpha, my good Alpha.”

Fuck, he wants to sink into Jaskier’s omega-sweet words, wants to melt into them, wants to curl up and sleep amongst the soft syllables and gentle tones. But he can’t, so he tries to follow Jaskier’s instructions instead. He settles. He calms.

He concentrates.

The cuffs are cold, the metal bites, and Geralt hangs onto the sensations like they’re an anchor to his sanity. He closes his eyes, forces his rut to settle back and tries hard to smother the urges to _break_ the restraints and _take_ the bard.

He tests the cuffs – they cut into his skin and the pain is a delicious antidote to whatever poison is wreaking havoc in his body and mind. He’s never felt like this before and it’s awful—

“Darling?”

—and it’s _perfect_.

“Darling, are you still with me?” Jaskier asks softly, ducking down to nip at Geralt’s ear, “or… are you somewhere else?”

Geralt grunts in response.

He doesn’t trust his own tongue, not yet.

Not when his rut is so strong, and his restraint is barely hanging together.

Jaskier—

Jaskier makes a sound that is caught between curious and melancholic.

“I see,” the bard says simply.

He’s only said _two_ words, but. But his tone is _wrong_ , his scent is _worse_ and Geralt’s eyes fly open when the omega’s unhappy aura seeps into his own skin, like venom and poison and _all things dangerous_ and _bad_.

The rut ebbs away.

Because his omega is hurting.

And that’s far more important than _instinct._

“I know I’m not _her_ ,” Jaskier murmurs sadly, pressing the words into Geralt’s skin like a secret, “but I can be,” he kisses Geralt’s flittering pulse, “I’m very good at that,” a flash of teeth, “role-play, it’s most exciting,” a teasing flick of tongue, “just excuse the lack of remarkably dangerous curves—”

“You’re not her,” Geralt rumbles, leaning away from Jaskier’s touch. It goes against every screaming instinct in his body, but Jaskier’s words are sharp, cold, _dead_ , hanging like a rotten carcass in their soft, glowing atmosphere. His sharp tongue has fallen blunt against his own insecurities and Geralt doesn’t like the _taste_ of his bright, confident bard feeling… _unsure_ in his own skin, “I don’t want that.”

Jaskier misinterprets his words though and flinches from his perch, his body goes rigid, his scent _sours_. Ugly jealousy, thick and acrid, floods the air like blood in the veins, searing Geralt’s senses like a brand – he watches as Jaskier’s eyes become dull and shuttered, his lips firm and upturned…

He watches as Jaskier begins to _pull_ away.

Geralt’s Alpha instincts growl and he lurches against the handcuffs.

“I want you,” he rushes out in a rolling purr – desperation radiates from his body, thick and cloudy and permeates the growing tension between them, “ _Julian_.”

Jaskier freezes and his scent changes so abruptly, it leaves Geralt dizzy with _want_ , _need_ , _desire_.

“How,” the bard begins, his words throaty and hoarse, before he clears his throat and tries again, “how do you know my name?”

“Heard you say it,” Geralt murmurs, not understanding _why_ they’re still talking, when they could be doing _so much more_ , “at a party.”

“And you remembered it?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head as he leans back down, stretching across Geralt’s body like a lethargic cat. His heated skin burns through the clothes on Geralt’s body. His hands crawl up to Geralt’s wrists, then higher to thread their fingers together, “you remembered my name?”

“Like I could forget anything about you,” Geralt states, holding onto Jaskier quick and hard, rocking his hips upwards pointedly.

Jaskier’s eyes are alight with joy, with pleasure, with. With.

With something that overwhelms Geralt, something that’s too much, too soon, too—

“My sweet Alpha, you do know how to woo an omega,” Jaskier sighs, rocking himself forwards to nose as Geralt’s jawbone, brushing his lips against the stubble, following the trail with sweet licks and impish nips, “how has no one claimed you yet?”

The question is innocent, but it—

It—

It pains Geralt something deep.

Wounds him.

Hurts.

He doesn’t want to answer his omega and he knows his scent is already turning bitter, so he turns his head, captures Jaskier’s lips in a kiss and uses his tongue to distract the omega from what could have been a spoiled moment. He delves in deep, claiming every part of Jaskier’s mouth for his own, imprinting himself – he wants to make sure that. That. That no matter who comes _next_ , they’ll always taste him, they’ll always taste Geralt on Jaskier’s lips and be reminded that—

That—

In a _small_ way—

The bard is _his_.

“So,” Jaskier breathes, breaking from the kiss, only to be caught in another, “Geralt,” and another, “darling,” another, “please,” one with tongue, “let me,” biting and taunting, “speak,” sharp and sweet, “I can’t,” teasing, “ _Geralt_!”

The omega finally breaks free, his lips wrecked and reddened, his eyes glassy and dazed – Geralt feels immeasurably pleased by the sight and rests against the pillows, quirking a single, amused brow at the speechless omega.

“Oh, don’t be so smug,” Jaskier tuts, gazing down at Geralt with a wry smile, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“Want to know what doesn’t suit you?” Geralt asks, impatient and a touch demanding, “ _Julian_?”

Jaskier shivers and cocks his head, a silent invitation for his Alpha to answer his own question.

“Your penchant for wasting time,” Geralt rumbles, his eyes flashing with an urgent need, “with your incessant chatter. Now, enough with your shit and get on my—"

“Oh, my poor darling witcher,” the bard cuts across him with a silky croon, reaching down to pet at Geralt’s cheeks, shifting himself so their hips and groins align in the most _delicious_ way, “I am being a cruel omega, aren’t I?”

Geralt growls as Jaskier brushes their lips together, straining against his cuffs ardently. The omega snaps his head up at the sound of creaking metal, his eyes dancing madly with lust – there’s a flash of teeth as Jaskier bites his lip before he rears up and gazes down at his trapped witcher. He seems to be assessing their situation, humming lightly under his breath, his nose twitching sweetly. Geralt’s rut has settled, he no longer feels _mindless_ and ruled by lust, by sex, by pure and animalistic _want._ Jaskier seems to sense it too – his darkened eyes flitter between the chains and Geralt’s face before he cocks his head and purrs, playful and pointed.

“Listen to me darling,” he begins, leaning down to brush his lips against Geralt’s mouth, only to pull away before his Alpha has the chance to deepen it, to turn it into something meaningful, deep, passionate.

“Julia—”

But Jaskier isn’t in the mood to be toyed with; he’s clearly operating with his own agenda at hand.

“I’m going to let you break free now—” the omega interjects, without a shred of shame.

A kiss against his temple.

“—and I’m going to trust you—”

A kiss to his cheekbone.

“—because you might be a scary witcher—”

A kiss to his jawline.

“—but you’re _my_ scary witcher,” Jaskier finishes, pulling back to flash Geralt a smoky smile, “and you will not hurt me.”

Geralt eyes him and waits, waits for Jaskier to give him explicit permission. The omega cocks his head, before his slowly nods, rolling his shoulders back as he wiggles his hips. Geralt grins as he’s given the right to go ahead – in one sharp movement, he snaps the handcuffs in half, grabs Jaskier by the hips and flips them over.

Jaskier trills with delight, pitched and carefree, falling to the bed with a bright smile.

“You are _my_ bard,” Geralt says, confirms, his lips curling around the words with a possessive purr, “and now I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

The answering chirp is sharp, clear and fills his heart with—

With—

With _something_.

“Say it again?” Jaskier asks, lightly sweet with bright, clear eyes.

“You are _my bard_ ,” Geralt repeats evenly, “and I will remind you every single day if I have to.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier breathes as he watches Geralt shift down the bed. His body tenses up when Geralt’s hands slide down from his throat, to his chest, sweeping across his sensitive stomach, only to rest in the hollows of his hips, his face mere inches from his groin. There’s something exceedingly pleasurable in experiencing the contrast of soft skin and calloused hands against such a sensitive area; Geralt tightens his grip and watches as a sharp mewl escapes Jaskier’s throat. The Alpha hums and leans down to gently press a kiss, lingering and wet, against amongst the light hairs which begin just below the omega’s navel. He keeps his eyes on Jaskier’s face as he presses kiss, after kiss, after kiss, trailing across the skin until he reaches the omega’s left hipbone. He flicks out his tongue, whirling it around the dip where Jaskier’s body concaves under the bone. Jaskier’s head falls back when Geralt’s introduces his teeth to the kiss, scraping and dragging across the delicate skin, followed by a soothing tongue which brushes apologetically across the faint red marks.

Jaskier clenches his eyes shut as Geralt continues his worship of the omega’s body.

The moment Jaskier closes his eyes, he feels himself fall into the sensations of Geralt’s ministrations. Pleasure blossoms under his skin, crawls into his nerves and ignites a flame which spreads from his heart to his groin. His hands fly to Geralt’s broad shoulders – he clutches desperately and wildly wonders what it would be like to have his legs wrapped around them. His grip shakes as Geralt’s burning touch wanders further down, and—

And—

And there’s no hiding his arousal now.

No hiding just how _slick_ he is.

How _wet_ he’s become.

It feels filthily good and so very sordid and—

And Jaskier feels a flicker of fear as he realises just how stripped back and _raw_ he feels in the moment. He’s not just a pretty songbird, warming someone’s bed for the evening – this is Geralt, not some bored lord or lady. This. This is _his_ Alpha, seeing him in all his entirety and. And it makes him feel so very free, but so very. Very. Flighty, too. He’s never felt more vulnerable and he knows that right now, Geralt could pretty much do _anything_ to him and Jaskier. Jaskier would be _helpless_ to prevent it.

Geralt’s lips linger just above the waistline of his pants, nose nuzzling amongst the downy hair which leads down from his navel. Jaskier’s fingers twitch nervously, before his hands curl into tight fists, clutching at the cheap blankets with ardent desperation; he wildly wants Geralt to stop, to _pause_ , just for a second so Jaskier can catch his breath and be given a chance to process the situation he’s in.

More than anything, however, he wants _more_. He wants more of Geralt, more of the Alpha, needs the witcher to carry on and never stop. Never stop touching him with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He wants Geralt to. To bite him. To leave his mark on him, to leave a lasting impression which shows that this moment _happened_ , it’s real.

It’s not just another dream which has left him feeling unsatisfied and frustrated and _so_ _alone_.

“Geralt, fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers the name like a prayer, like a chant, like it offers him salvation and sanctuary. The litany falls from his lips and he’s answered in the form of Geralt rearing up and pressing his lips to Jaskier’s once more. The kiss steals away what little breath he has, Geralt’s lips crush against his and for a moment, Jaskier wants it to _bruise_. Geralt’s hands curl around his jawbone, his hips pressed up tight against him. Jaskier bucks and forces himself further into Geralt’s embrace, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He feels Geralt’s large, rough hand paw at his cheek, absently playing with loose locks of hair. Their tongues dance and entwine, savouring the _taste_ and the _feel_ of one another. Teeth clash and nip at lips; noses which bump, turn into noses which nuzzle, and all at once, Jaskier’s senses are overwhelmed with nothing but Geralt.

He’s surrounded by Geralt’s taste, his touch, his scent.

Jaskier wants to submerge himself in it all, never to resurface.

Unfortunately, that’s when Geralt breaks their kiss, panting softly as he gently presses his forehead against Jaskier’s – it’s so unlike any Alpha he’s ever experienced. Which should not surprise him – Geralt is not like any _man_ he’s ever come across, so it makes sense that he would break all traditional convention when it came to. Alpha, omega… _things_. Swallowing back a whine, Jaskier reaches up to thread his fingers through Geralt’s dirty-soft locks. He feels… light, like a cloud, and he allows Geralt to rest against him, content with allowing Geralt to use him as an anchor in the storm of his rut.

“Julian,” Geralt says, voice strained and ragged in a way that sparks Jaskier’s desire something _fierce_. He’s never heard his name sound like a promise and a warning, all in one go. Geralt’s groin brushes against Jaskier’s thigh and the omega is once again stunned to feel the hardness which lingers there. A glimmer of pride flickers across his mind at the thought that _he’s_ the one who’s done this to Geralt. _He’s_ the reason why Geralt is so hard and why Geralt is speaking with a voice that _drips_ with arousal. “I want _you_.”

He’s the one that Geralt wants and desires, which, ha! _Take that witch_!

Still.

It’s terrifying and mystifying and _thrilling_ , all at once.

“You have me,” he answers easily, his smart answers left behind in favour of honest ones.

“No,” Geralt says, thrusting against him once more with a minute twitch of his hips, “Julian, _my omega_. I want you. Can I have you?”

Jaskier answers with a delighted laugh and a blazing blush.

“Darling, and you say _I_ have a problem with incessant chatter!” he chortles, despite his heart beating _hard_ with anticipation and a touch of. Of nerves? Of anxiety? It’s… a strange sensation, being so apprehensive of _sex_. He’s slept with so many people, but. But sleeping with Geralt was a concept he had always considered out of reach… having it now, presented him so openly and easily… it. It frightens him and excites him – he’s not going to waste this glorious opportunity now, “yes! Yes, you can have me.”

 _You can keep me too, if you wanted_ ; the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back. They would be too much and too soon, and Jaskier doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He feels Geralt’s exhale of breath brush against the side of his neck, feels the man deflate in his arms slightly. His rut is still there, resting and waiting on the edge of their coupling – Jaskier is routinely impressed by Geralt’s restraint, but right now?

Now it’s—

 _Frustrating_ and _inconveniencing_.

“Good,” Geralt says, idly playing with Jaskier’s budding nipples, stroking his calloused thumbs over the sensitive peaks, “because I’m not letting anyone else have you now.”

Before Jaskier can really dissect his words, or even _question_ them, his entire world suddenly explodes with pleasure. Geralt has ducked down again, ripping the laces free from Jaskier’s pants and. And suddenly his mouth is hot, wet, tight around Jaskier’s cock, sucking him in deep and hard. Jaskier squawks, curses and splutters as his hands fly to Geralt’s hair, fisting the locks tight and desperate. His body trembles when Geralt’s fingers crawl around his body, searching and wandering, until. Until.

Until one probes at him, wet and warm and—

And—

And Jaskier cracks an eye open, unsure as to when Geralt had the time to—

And then he sees Geralt gazing up at him, with his own particular brand of mischief gleaming in his eyes. By Jaskier’s thigh is the oil he uses for his swords and. And the omega is quite… _charmed_. And flattered. So many assume that the slick he produces is enough, but it’s not. Unless he’s in heat, and oh, what a thought that is, sharing his heat with Geralt! Oh, what a shame that it will be weeks before his next one. Goodness, he hopes Geralt sticks around for it. Regardless, he… he still needs to be prepared, to be warmed up. All good instruments need to be tuned properly first and. And Jaskier can be a _very_ good instrument to the right musician and oh, oh how Geralt plays him so well.

His fingers are curious.

His mouth is hot.

His fingers are deliberate.

His tongue is wicked.

His fingers press and burn and touch, in all the right ways.

Then the Alpha begins to hum, deep in his throat, surrounding Jaskier’s cock with the sweetest vibrations…

The omega croons and trills, pressing against Geralt’s burning touch and inviting him to touch more, to play more, to _do_ more. He feels the pleasure build and crest, but before he gets to topple over and fall into the stormy waves of an orgasm, Geralt pulls away.

His Alpha pulls the fuck away.

“Geralt, how dare you—”

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

“—say such sweet, sweet things, oh, you _devious, naughty_ man!” Jaskier finishes, and with all the blood rushing down to his groin, he can’t believe he has any left to highlight his face in a flaming blush. He wriggles his hips invitingly, despite feeling so hollow and empty when Geralt withdraws his fingers – his cock feels cold, his body feels incomplete and the gland in his throat burns with. With the _need_ to be bitten and claimed.

Fuck, he wants to be claimed.

He wants to be owned.

He wants Geralt.

Jaskier watches as Geralt slips out of his own clothes, dropping the garments on the floor with little care. The witcher has never felt a shred of shame when it came to being nude and for that, Jaskier can only be thankful to whatever deity is caring to listen to him. The witcher climbs back onto the bed, with all the precision of a lion, stalking its prey.

He watches, wide-eyed and stunned, as Geralt places his slick-soaked fingers into his own mouth, sampling the most intimate fluids from Jaskier’s core.

He finds himself purely mesmerised as Geralt lightly hums, pleased by the taste and Jaskier feels himself _ascend_ to paradise. His Alpha enjoys how he tastes, delights in his delicious flavour, _oh_ , how could life get any more joyous?

The cuffs jangle on Geralt’s wrists, but the Alpha pays them little mind as he pulls his fingers free from his lips. Then he reaches for Jaskier’s body and buries his fingers once more, feeling himself settle and purr at being buried deep into the omega’s hot core. Slowly, he crooks his fingers, gently twisting it within Jaskier’s body and keeps an eye out for the bard’s addictive reactions. Curling them forwards makes Jaskier’s body shudder, an almost subtle movement which would have gone unnoticed had Geralt been a mere _human_. Twisting his fingers to the back has Jaskier choking, his hips thrusting sharply as if panicked by the notion of Geralt taking them out. The bard’s mouth is open, drool pooling against the corner of his lips as he pants against the bed, his eyes fluttering slightly with frustration.

“Geralt, you bastard,” he moans, tossing his head against the pillow, “if you don’t put your cock in me, I’m going to hunt down that other Alpha and—"

“No,” Geralt interrupts, abruptly removing his fingers and shifting to rest his cock against Jaskier’s pert arse, “you won’t.”

Then.

Then he _sinks in_.

Slow and sweet… creating an ache so _agonising_ , it fills him with overwhelming, crushing desire.

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, clutching at the Alpha’s shoulders with clever, strong fingers.

“I know,” Geralt answers, holding fast onto Jaskier’s hips, his eyes focused on Jaskier’s face. He’s watching, careful and close, making sure that he doesn’t hurt the bard, that every single quiver is from something _good_ , from something that brings the omega joy and pleasure.

Then.

Then he settles, fully buried within the tempestuous omega and finds his rut already ebbing away.

He—

He wonders if _this_. If this is _home_ and _domesticity_ and _everything_ a witcher has to sacrifice and give up. Geralt wonders if. If he’ll ever find _this_ again and knows he must savour every moment he has with his mortal omega bard.

Geralt watches Jaskier sigh and tremble underneath him, his warm, wet heat sucking the Alpha in tight. He hadn’t thought it possible, but he’s pretty sure he’s become even more endeared towards the lovely bard beneath him. The bard who speaks without a single thought, who can charm entire courts as easily as he charms entire bars – who charms mutant witchers, without feeling a flicker of fear. Oh, how he laments Jaskier’s lack of self-preservation… still, he wouldn’t change him for anything. Ducking down, Geralt captures Jaskier’s lips in a wet kiss, pouring all the _want, need, desire_ he has for the omega into it. He wants to overwhelm Jaskier with it, wants Jaskier to feel it, even when Geralt is far away from him…

Because no matter how they spend tonight, eventually.

Eventually, they will part ways.

They may find each other again, they always seem to cross paths, but.

But they’ll still be separated first.

Geralt shakes his head and continues his mission, searing Jaskier’s memory with his kiss.

Jaskier, however, feels like he’s _drowning_ , Geralt’s clever tongue tears unbidden whimpers from his throat. He grips onto Geralt’s hair, the silky strands keeping him anchored in the present as he feels his mind freefall from the pleasure. His body burns and grows slick under Geralt’s touch, his hips arching up greedily for _more_.

Geralt growls when he feels Jaskier’s body tighten around his cock and he knows, knows that the omega is growing impatient…

With a deep sigh, Geralt breaks the kiss, leaves one last searing press of his lips against Jaskier’s jawbone before he pulls back. Looks at the sight before him. Resolves to see Jaskier in his bed again, because he cannot simply be satisfied with just savouring this sight just once. He feels his rut bubble within his gut as his eyes trail the bard’s pretty face – his angles, his lines, his sharp edges… Geralt wants to cut himself on them all. He wants to run his fingers across Jaskier’s cheekbones, trace his ribs and leave bruises on his hips.

Then.

Then he realises… that he can.

He can leave all the marks he wants.

So Geralt does.

He takes Jaskier by the hips and begins to thrust, pulling his cock out, only to melt into the heat as he buries himself once more into the bard’s limber body. He drinks in the sight of Jaskier shuddering underneath him, hands quivering as they fly to grasp at the blankets beneath them. Dark blue eyes glow in the soft moonlight, hidden away under heavy-hooded lids; the lust bright and evident. It burns Geralt’s core to see such blatant desire and he can’t resist swooping down to press another deep kiss to Jaskier’s pretty lips. His tongue reaches in, eager to touch every crevice and taste every nook in Jaskier’s mouth, wanting to commit every part of the omega to memory. He keeps a firm grip on Jaskier’s hips, stroking his thumb over the bone in constant, hard swipes.

He pulls out.

He rocks in.

He growls and rumbles and roars out Jaskier’s name like a blessing, a curse, a prayer.

“G-Geralt,” Jaskier gasps wetly between hot, little kisses, “Geralt, I need— could you… oh fuck, don’t stop, your _scent!_ Oh, this is. You are. _Please_?” Though his speech is broken and half-formed, he still punctuates his words with small jerks of his hips, meeting Geralt’s movements with graceful thrusts.

He knows what Jaskier wants – what he _needs_.

With a snarl, Geralt rears up, tosses Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders and forces himself in deep. Jaskier throws his head back, howls out his pleasure and delight, bears his teeth and snarls back – his fingers tear at the blankets, his heels dig into Geralt’s back and. And. And he’s absolutely _feral_ in bed, greedily sucking Geralt in, greedily soaking up the unadulterated pleasure, the absolute joy, the—

“Geralt, oh! Fuck!”

—unequivocal—

“Julian, _Julian_.”

— _everything_ —

“My omega, so _clever_ , so beautiful, my—”

—which builds between them.

“—gorgeous Alpha, _so_ good to me, so _good_!”

Geralt settles down, keeps his face close to Jaskier’s, keeps his gaze focused on the sweet bard’s dark, _dark_ eyes. He keeps one hand firmly tucked around a hip, the other reaches up and combs through damp, silky hair. Jaskier whines and bucks, and Geralt continues to bury himself deep before he pulls himself out, his cock barely brushing the rim of Jaskier’s body, before it sinks into the smooth heat of _his_ omega.

The pleasure tears through his body, rips through his spine.

He’s never felt anything like this before.

Not with.

With anyone.

Not even with Yennefer.

It feels so much _more,_ and it makes him feel _complete_ and _whole_ and… and…

And then he’s cresting, falling and—

And—

“Geralt!”

And—

And the world blurs away, until all Geralt can see is dark, blue eyes. Until all he can taste is sticky-sweet wine. Until all he can smell is oranges and honeydew and—

And _Jaskier_.

Purely, wholly Jaskier.

Jaskier’s entire body pulls taut, tight muscles clamping down around Geralt, causing stars to burst beneath his eyelids. Geralt growls as he watches Jaskier climax, the bard’s hands shaking, his fingers tight and nails bitingly _sharp_. Jaskier’s body curls and presses against the bed beneath them. Geralt feels his muscles, his bones, melt as Jaskier’s tight core squeezes him, slowly milking all the pleasure out of his body.

They twitch.

They shiver.

Tremble.

Quiver.

Every breathy sigh is heavy with unspoken words.

Every little hum is full of airy affection.

It’s hot and warm and feels so.

Right.

Then. They settle, the silence broken only by their gentle pants. Geralt falls to the side of Jaskier – he drags the bard with him, gathering him up in his arms and tucking him against his hip. He brushes Jaskier’s damp hair away from his face, his eyes taking stock of every inviting inch of the bard’s pretty face – the omega has his eyes shut, but there’s a sweet smile on his lips.

He looks.

Peaceful.

Content.

 _Happy_.

And Geralt feels himself rumble with pleasure, because _he_ is the reason the bard looks so.

So.

Beautifully satisfied.

The witcher scans Jaskier’s face and his eyes fall to the omega’s throat. There, in the crook of the bard’s throat, nestled just below his pulse, is his scent-gland. It radiates with a sickly-sweet smell and it’s swollen, fat and full – just one bite, and Jaskier.

Jaskier would be _his_.

Forever.

At least, Jaskier’s _forever_.

His bite would scar, leaving behind a mark which would inform everyone that the witcher’s bard is also the witcher’s _omega_. Geralt swallows thickly and reaches up, curiously touching the gland – he’s never seen one look so… _ample_ , before. The omegas he normally sleeps with typically have their glands covered by jewellery or ribbons; even then, Jaskier’s gland is so big and inviting and oh, how Geralt salivates at the thought of sinking his teeth into his omega’s neck.

Jaskier whimpers and freezes as Geralt fingers the sensitive spot with delicate strokes.

“You can,” the omega trills, quiet and yearning, stretching out his neck invitingly, “I want you to.”

Geralt is silent as he thumbs over the thick bump in Jaskier’s throat – his bard shivers in his grip and he leans in, quick and deliberate. He laves his tongue over the gland, drinks in the sweet, spicy taste of Jaskier, because _of course_ , his omega isn’t sweet. Of course, the omega Geralt wants most in life, has a sharp edge to him – he doesn’t think he wants Jaskier any other way, honestly. With his job, his _life_ … he’s not meant for the cliché, traditions of life. A witcher doesn’t get to indulge in _domesticity_ , in _children_ and _households_.

Which is why—

Which—

Is _why_.

“I can’t,” he rumbles, baring his teeth alongside his words, “I can’t bite you.”

Jaskier whines, like Geralt’s rejection has stung him like a sword to the gut. The omega wriggles and begins to pull away, but Geralt’s grip is strong and steadfast. He tucks Jaskier tight against his body and noses at the gland again – the taste is no longer sweet… rather, it’s spoiled and bitter and Geralt sighs, knowing that he’s caused this.

“Do not dare,” Jaskier bites out, “do not dare give me some… some horse-crap about it being too dangerous, or that you’re trying to _protect_ me! Don’t you dare—”

“No,” Geralt interjects roughly, “you’re far more dangerous than most beasts I slay – but it would be unfair. We meet once every ten years, it would be ruinous to mate with you and not be there for your heats, or my ruts—”

“I don’t want you to bite me so you can _warm_ my bed—”

“And I fear I would go insane, not knowing where you were, who you were with,” Geralt continues, flicking his tongue against Jaskier’s erratic pulse, like an admonishment, “I don’t want to be unaware of what my little lark is doing—

“—you mean _who_ I’m doing—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs with exasperation.

“Forgive my aggravated state, but I do not appreciate the implications of your words, _dear Alpha_ , when you have slept with far more than I,” Jaskier hisses, before something _cold_ flitters through his eyes, “oh, or maybe that’s it.” Jaskier shifts, pushes himself up on to his arms and glares down at the witcher, unafraid that the Alpha he’s angry at could _easily_ snap him in half, “you don’t want to bite me, because it would be _most unfair_ of you to be denied the chance of being with that, that, that _witch_! I don’t blame you, naturally, she’s sexy and nightmare-inducing, but honestly! Show a little decorum to the omega currently warming your—”

“Fate save me from your theatrics,” Geralt sighs, cutting across Jaskier’s tirade before he really gets into it, “it has nothing to do with Yennefer and all to do with _you_ , suffering because I cannot fulfil my duties to you.”

“Oh, _duties_?” Jaskier echoes, arching an eyebrow, “well, I take it back – I don’t want you to bite me, I wouldn’t want you to _feel_ obliged to share my heats with me! See if I ever let you take a bite out of _my_ honeycomb!”

Geralt rolls his eyes and leans up to the omega, his body language unthreatening and open.

“Must you misread my words so earnestly?” he asks, cupping the bard’s face with a single gentle hand. Jaskier resists for mere moments, his façade strong and hard, before he melts into the warm touch.

His eyes are still shrewd and suspicious.

His sweet smile still sharp at the edges.

Geralt’s omega is lovely but should never be mistaken for soft.

For _weak_.

“Forgive me for finding joy in teasing you,” he answers with a wry tone, “but consider it recompense for all _your_ teasing I’ve had to endure all these years!”

Geralt furrows his brow and considers Jaskier’s words.

“What teasing?” he asks, because he cannot think of a single moment where he’s taunted the bard in… well, _this_ manner.

Jaskier hums thoughtfully and nuzzles Geralt’s hand, before he nips it sweetly.

“You know,” he begins, slow and considering, “I don’t just have a reputation of being The Witcher’s bard, or the Butcher’s songbird,” he sighs when Geralt moves his hand down, slipping it from cheek, to jaw, to throat, resting in the crook with a firm thumb pressed against his pulse, “I’m also _his_ omega. _His_ mate. _His_ , ah, Geralt!” Jaskier jolts suddenly when the entwining scents around them turn heavy with _desire_ , with _pleasure_ , with—

“My, what?” Geralt asks, his body sings with joy – he finds he enjoys the _possessive_ nature of their relationship. It may be fabrication, but it soothes something deep and primitive in his mind, “what are you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier whines and holds onto Geralt’s arm, his hips twitching as his eyes flutter with pleasure – Geralt continues to taunt and finger his gland with idle movements. He’ll show his omega what he’s like when he _wants_ to _tease_.

“I’m,” Jaskier utters weakly, “they think. They think I’m your _whore_.”

The atmosphere sours slightly as Geralt’s lips upturn with firm displeasure.

“You’re not my whore,” he states, not because there’s anything inherently _wrong_ with whores, but he doesn’t really enjoy the idea of Jaskier working in a brothel. Selling his affections like they’re his songs… it doesn’t suit the flighty bard.

It doesn’t suit _his_ omega.

“I’m not your mate either,” Jaskier says pointedly, “but oh, how I’ve longed to be. I would have even taken being your bedwarmer, your whore. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, brooding in your corner, looking so _mysterious_ and _dark_ , I’ve wanted you. And. And so yes, during our travels together, I felt teased… being so close to the one thing I’ve ever really wanted but could never really keep. It’s why I’ve always hated it when you protected me from the lustful attentions of other Alphas. Your actions. They _tricked_ me into think you wanted _more_ from me. You. You tricky Alpha _bastard_.”

Geralt sighs and regards the petulant omega steadily.

“You would tire of being my mate,” he says, because his earlier arguments haven’t worked, but this one might, “you _would_ tire, running after a witcher – you wouldn’t get to enjoy playing with lords and ladies. No princesses, either.”

Jaskier blinks at Geralt, bland and unimpressed.

“How could I ever tire of being _your_ mate?” he asks, honestly at a loss, “and should I ever desire a princess in my bed again, then. Well. I could always throw a crown on your pretty locks – that should work.”

“Don’t you dare,” Geralt growls, which has Jaskier shivering, despite the mischievous glint which dances in his eyes, “I mean it.”

“Of course,” Jaskier grins, “when do you _ever_ say _anything_ you don’t mean?”

There’s another sigh, before Geralt falls back to the bed, dragging Jaskier with him. The omega falls solidly against his chest, tucked under a strong arm, his cheek pressed tight to his Alpha’s heart. Jaskier hums, tapping his fingers against Geralt’s stomach, timing his movements to the witcher’s heartbeat – then, with idle movements, he begins to trace the long scars which slice across his weathered skin.

His movements are slow, curious, but… almost reverent.

“I suppose you wish to know how I received them?” Geralt asks, his tone bland and almost bored.

Jaskier snickers though.

Flicks his fingers teasingly against Geralt’s hip.

“My darling,” he murmurs, arching up to press his lips to his Alpha’s ear, “I was there for most of these and I dare say, I tell the story far better than you ever could.”

Geralt’s body stills for a second, before a small smile twitches on his lips and he cascades a hand through Jaskier’s thick, soft hair. It’s true, his version of his stories do lack the depth, the passion, the _questionable_ detail, that Jaskier pours into his tales.

Despite his very hardest to restrain himself, Geralt finds that he is endlessly endeared by Jaskier’s… _everything_.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says, because it’s true, “if you are curious.”

“ _My_ witcher, not minding my questions for once?” Jaskier asks, placing a hand to Geralt’s forehead, “are you sure this is a mere rut and not some plague you have caught?”

“I don’t get sick,” Geralt states, and this time it’s _his_ turn to be petulant.

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“My big, brave witcher,” he mocks, sweet and light, “so invincible, not even the common cold can touch him—”

“Behave,” Geralt grumbles, his words juxtaposing the cloud of delight which emanates from his body – just hearing Jaskier’s possessive nicknames leaves him feeling more _whole_ than he ever has in his entire life. Their room is smothered with their pheromones and Geralt has a feeling that it’s only a matter of time before their scents float down to the bar. _Good_. He hopes that jackass of an Alpha who _touched_ his omega can _smell_ their sex, can _smell_ their mating and knows. _Knows_ that the next time he dares to touch Geralt’s omega without explicit permission and respect… will be the last time he gets to touch anyone. Just the thought has Geralt rumbling deep in his chest, unhappy and distressed, but he’s soon settled when Jaskier cards his clever fingers through his thick, white hair. Jaskier snickers under his breath, because he _knows_ that his Alpha is playing the growly bear, when in reality, his Alpha is melting beneath his touch.

Jaskier _knows_ this and Geralt _knows_ that he knows.

Seeing the bratty bard looking so smug has Geralt wanting to do a little _taunting_ of his own.

He rolls them over, until he’s on his side and Jaskier is huddled up against him. Geralt ducks down, nuzzles into the crook of the bard’s neck and finds the swollen gland he’s become so _obsessed_ with. He breathes in deep, feels his body, his muscles, his _bones_ , melt into the bed. He greets the little bump with his lips, mouthing and kissing it gently, flattening his tongue across it. Jaskier mewls and chirrups when Geralt’s teeth graze the sensitive area, nipping and biting at it lightly.

He feels Jaskier’s chest vibrate with a deep purr.

He hears Jaskier cry and shudder.

God.

Geralt thinks he could _die_ right here, right now and he wouldn’t even be mildly inconvenienced.

“Don’t tease,” Jaskier scolds, breathy and pitched, hitting at Geralt’s chest. He’s _surprisingly_ strong, but then again, maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised? Jaskier is not like any omega he’s ever come across before, “please, Geralt.”

Yennefer, probably _could_ have come close.

But she’s an Alpha now.

True and terrifying and powerful.

Jaskier could be all of those things, he has the _potential_ … but he’s not. Which makes him stronger and more terrifying, honestly. Geralt hums as his thoughts turn wild, imagining Jaskier as a _witch_ , with magic and power and oh, what a horrifying concept.

He buries his face into Jaskier’s throat and drinks in the warmth, the scent, the pure energy of his bard wrapped around him. He feels Jaskier purr, feels him wriggle and press up tighter against Geralt, like he’s trying hard to occupy the same space as him, like he’s just not satisfied with being tangled up together, he wants more, because it’s Jaskier and he always wants more.

“Jaskier,” he rumbles, nosing at the gland again, because now he’s denied himself the right to mate Jaskier officially, he finds himself becoming addicted to the feel, the smell, the taste – god, he wants the gland in his mouth, but. But he’s not going to.

Not right now, at least.

Maybe…

Maybe one day, he _will_ retire.

But for now…

“Jaskier,” he urges again, because the flames of arousal are licking at his gut again, stretching downwards, towards his cock, “ _Julian_ ,” he urges again, which has the pretty bard snickering wickedly.

“Ask nicely,” Jaskier teases, arching against Geralt, pulling away to show off his sparkling blue eyes, “ask me nicely, _Alpha_.”

Geralt’s answering growl has Jaskier laughing brightly, as he pulls away and straddles the witcher in one smooth move. Jaskier purrs, rolls his hips and cants his head to the side – he looks like a prince, perched on his throne.

The look suits him.

“Use your words,” Jaskier says, biting at his lip, his eyes coquettish and heavy as he observes the Alpha beneath him, “darling, please.”

Geralt grips Jaskier’s sharp hips, presses his fingers deep into the flesh and flips them, confining Jaskier with his own body.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Geralt murmurs hotly, pressing his face to Jaskier’s gland one last time, licking and lapping at the sweet, swollen bump. His omega chirps and jerks underneath him, shivering with pleasure, “please, Julian, let me fuck you?”

Jaskier’s answering trill is light, cheery and thrums throughout their room.

“Who am I to,” his bard pauses, licks his lips and gazes at Geralt with _dark_ eyes, “to deny such an enticing request?”

Geralt lets out a rumble which vibrates from his chest to his throat – he lifts Jaskier’s legs, tosses them over his shoulders and reaches down, testing his omega’s body carefully. He’s still slick, still swollen, but not painfully so. Jaskier purses his lip, flashes Geralt with beseeching eyes and pushes against the Alpha’s fingers.

“If you tease me again…” the bard trails off warningly, his body flying off the bed when Geralt buries two fingers deep inside him. He’s hot and slick, still stretched out from moments ago – the Alpha searches and searches, crooking his fingers, until— “ _Geralt_! What did I _say_?”

Again, the tone is not quite _Alpha_ , but Geralt finds himself obeying the implicit demand.

He pulls his fingers out.

Replaces it with his cock.

And finds himself melting into the familiar heat.

He groans as their bodies join together once again, fuck it _feels_ so right.

Jaskier seems to think so too…

“You’re mine, Alpha,” he mewls, trapping Geralt in a cage made from his long legs; his body arches, his throat stretches, he’s pulling off all the tricks in the omega book, Geralt knows this and fuck, he _enjoys_ watching Jaskier like this, “ _mine_ – you can fuck all the gorgeous witches you can find, but you are _mine_.”

“Always,” Geralt agrees, whilst his can still think, because his rut is rearing its head again, he can feel his mind blurring at the edges already. He tries to focus though, his large hands mapping the expanse of smooth skin beneath him; he might not be able to bite Jaskier’s throat, but he can leave his mark in other ways – he can scent his pretty bard until Jaskier is _saturated_ in his smell. Until it doesn’t matter if there’s a bite or not, because everyone can _smell_ that Jaskier is taken and that no lovely princess or handsome lord can take him away from Geralt.

Just like no powerful witch can take Geralt away from Jaskier.

He doesn’t even _want_ to be taken away from the bard.

He—

He wants—

He needs—

Fuck, he longs to belong to the bard. He wants to be smothered in the omega’s sweet smell, wants everyone to know that Jaskier isn’t just _his omega_ , but he’s also _Jaskier’s Alpha_. Fuck, something about those two words just. They just.

They make his blood sing.

Humans think witches can’t feel.

But they’re wrong.

Witches… feel _too_ much.

Emotions embody them, empowers them, gives them the strength to accomplish tasks that humans can only dream about – and right now, Geralt is _drowning_ in what he feels for Jaskier.

He doesn’t even know what it is, what he feels.

But.

But.

But it’s _there_.

And it’s all-encompassing.

And it’s familiar and sweet and Geralt never wants to lose _feeling_ it again.

“I’ll bite you,” he suddenly burrs, as he begins to rock his hips into Jaskier’s lovely body, “not today, but one day, you’ll be _mine_.”

Jaskier growls and mouths at Geralt’s throat, leaving his own marks. Omegas don’t bite – well, they can, but not like an Alpha. But Jaskier is not an ordinary omega, he is defiant and bold, so of course he goes against all expectation, breaking tradition as easily as he breaks a loaf of bread. Geralt shivers and closes his eyes when he feels the sharp nips of Jaskier’s teeth against his throat, _possessive_ and _claiming_ in their own right.

It—

It feels nice.

 _Good_ , even.

Being _owned_ by Jaskier.

He just hopes to reciprocate properly at some point – Jaskier, naturally, has other plans.

“I’ve always been yours,” the bard purrs with tongue and teeth, “now, prove that you’re _mine_ too.”

Again, Jaskier makes his demands.

Again, Geralt is helpless to do anything but obey.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my only contribution to the witcher fandom.
> 
> you will never see me again.
> 
> _poof._


End file.
